Remember, Remember, The 5th of November

It was Guy’s birthday on Wednesday. Guess who he was called after? Yup – you got it – Guy de Maupassant. Nah – it was that bearded fellow in 1605 who tried to roast a few parliamentarians.

We had a bit of a party for him but as it was the end of school half-term and most of his mates live miles away and it was absolutely pouring with rain, he only had one pal, Drew, over to help him celebrate. But that didn’t stop us adults having a ball. Any old excuse.

Nibbles and wine to start with followed by pizza and more wine. Some champagne and then fireworks and birthday cake, and then some more wine to end the evening. The fireworks were a scream. We’d bought them in summer but because there were no wet days we couldn’t use them so last night I dug them out and set them off on the terrace firing them at the French houses. You don’t really get good (I mean big) fireworks out here so the pack we had consisted of extra-small rockets, firecrackers and some Catherine wheel things and 2 roman candles. Strangely enough there were about 20 of the small rockets and in an effort to try and create a bigger bang, we taped several of them together. Big mistake. They simply caught fire and whooshed around making everybody run into the safety of the pool house. Ever seen 6 guys trying to get through a door made for one?

After that little escapade we retired to the kitchen where it was much dryer and a bit warmer and then we set J up big time.

A few years ago we built an enormous bonfire, complete with a Guy. As it was a bit damp in the days leading up to the 5^th I soaked it in a couple of gallons of petrol. The highlight of the evening, dare I say it myself, was when I would fire a flaming arrow into the bonfire from a safe distance. I visualised the arrow making a long flaming arc before hitting the bonfire at the base which would set it alight. Well, I completely forgot about the weight of the paraffin soaked rag tied round the end of the arrow and when I fired it, it simply flew a few yards and landed with a dull thud, well short of the bonfire. There was nothing for it but to retrieve the arrow which I did and hoping I was far enough away from the bonfire, I threw it in. Not quite as spectacular, but it had the same effect. There was an almighty explosion and flames must have flown 30 feet into the air. Anyway, the rest of the evening went off ok but several of our guests were taking bets as to when the Pompier (French Fire Brigade) would arrive. Luckily they never did, but it was that fear of the Pompier arriving in droves to put out the fire (they don’t have bonfires here) and giving me a big fine which started the little joke on J.

So we’re in the kitchen and I get Guy to call the home phone on his mobile from the lounge. The phone rings in the kitchen, I pick it up and say, ‘aah oui, oui, oui c’est moi, oui, oui’. By this time J is getting impatient as you do when you’re trying to work out what the person on the other end of the line is saying and she offers to take the call as it’s obvious I’m struggling with my French. She takes the handset and as she does, she says, ‘who is it’?. ‘The Pompier’, I reply and she goes pale. She takes the call in the lounge where Guy is sitting on the sofa talking into his mobile….but it doesn’t click. Her own son is berating her for firing off fireworks without a licence, kidding on he is the Pompier and J is all apologetic.

It was only the hysterical laughter from all the adults in the kitchen who were in on the dastardly deed, who made her think something was not quite right. Poor girl! 

PS - was it only me, who for years and years, thought the burning of a Guy on top of the bonfire was a celebration of his act of trying to blow up parliament as opposed to a celebration of him being hung, drawn and quartered?